


London Falls

by tsw



Series: The Ninth Life [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, Children, Death, Drama, Gore, M/M, Protective John, Protective Lestrade, Protective Sherlock, Romance, Subtle Romance, Violence, Zombie, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-16 08:59:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3482273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsw/pseuds/tsw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After discovering that the cat population of London had decreased considerably, Sherlock investigates the cause. What he finds is unfathomable. </p><p>Zombies belong in the realm of the impossible, anyone with a brain could deduce that much. But when the boys of 221B Baker Street are faced with the impossible, what will they do?</p><p>(A/N: I had originally posted this at the end of Feb but after major consideration, decided to pull it down to rework it just a little to fit new standards and ideas. For those of you who already read, liked, and even subscribed, I encourage you to reread these rewritten chapters. Thank you and happy reading!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ten Thousand Death Toll

**Author's Note:**

> So, after a lot of thought on how I wanted this to play out, I decided to take the original version down and fix it. Most of this first chapter is the same, though longer with a little more explanation as I feel Sherlock should be using his skills more than I originally allowed. I apologize to those who had subscribed previously and hope you enjoy the new version a little more. I have to admit, I'm a little daunted, as out of all characters I've ever written, Sherlock is the only character I'm extremely nervous to portray correctly. I want this to be true to his and John's nature. Zombies are more of my expertise, so that is the part I really hope you all will really enjoy.
> 
> Anyways, happy reading and please don't be afraid to leave me a comment afterwards! I want to make this as enjoyable as possible and I would really benefit from your feedback.

It was a slow Sunday morning for 221B Baker Street. 

John Watson had risen early while Sherlock Holmes, it seemed, had slipped out of the flat some time earlier. John relaxed first thing with fresh coffee while he checked his email and news. The silence that morning was much appreciated, considering the last three days previous he had been running around London, with no sleep and no time for a proper meal. 

It had been a terrible case, with children’s lives at risk and four already dead. Sherlock had taken the case when Lestrade showed up with a helpless look on his face and all three deaths leading to only one conclusion; the deaths had been at the hands- or rather paws of family pet dogs. But four deaths of the same pattern were rarely a coincidence and Sherlock had been mad with boredom for days before. He solved the mystery of their deaths within mere hours. The dogs had been given a drug, inducing them into a frenzy which ultimately left four children murdered. But the true killer was obviously not canine and pinpointing him had proven decently difficult. Collecting him was even more dangerous. Though the crime solving duo had come out unscathed, Lestrade bore down on them with loud words and threats for running off by themselves once again. 

When John and the detective had stumbled into the flat late the night before, John swore he would never own a dog. The images of foaming mouths, wild eyes and raised hackles made him shudder even still. He knew those animals had been faithful companions and faithful family members before they were drugged and set loose on children. But it would be a while before he would feel remotely safe around another dog. 

John settled in front of the telly for some time after making himself breakfast that morning. It helped soothe his mind and take the weight of those children taken off his shoulders. The light that filtered in through the windows was bleary and gave the flat a grey and dull over tone. He didn't mind, as his head felt heavy and his eyes still tired. 

With food processing in his stomach, the fog that had settled in the night before began to slowly lift from his mind. He was a seasoned soldier. He was equipped to handle and move past the worst kind of stress. All he really needed at the end of a particularly difficult case was a moment of silence and a cup of tea.

It was another half hour of early crap telly before he felt right again. He even felt eager to write up the fresh case on his blog. 

If he was lucky, the detective wouldn’t be back for some time and John could manage to write up an entire blog without snide comments over his shoulder. He cleaned up after breakfast, made a trip to the toilet and changed into jeans and a jumper. By then it was nine in the morning and there was still no sign of Sherlock. John was back at his laptop, blog open to a new post and he began to type out the recently solved case.

\---

It was ten thirty and John was struggling with the words typed out in front of him. He had taken a break when visited by Mrs. Hudson, but couldn’t find his way around the block in his mind. He sat behind the laptop, his chin in one hand while his fingers drummed against the desk. He was rereading his work so far when he heard all too familiar foot steps racing up the stairs. Sherlock bursted in a moment later, hand raised in John’s direction (“shut up, John”) and his other hand busy with his mobile.

The doctor sighed through his nose and continued to reread his blog until Sherlock, who stood still in the middle of the room, was ready to share. It wasn’t long.

“Do you know how many cats live in the London area, John?”

John peered over the top of laptop screen with an indifferent expression. Sherlock paced in front of him, phone in hand and thumb swiping across the screen. Shrugging his shoulders, mainly to himself, his gaze fell back to his own screen and he answered lazily.

“A million?”

Sherlock didn’t stop pacing. “Nope.”

“Two million?” He guessed again. He squinted at the bright screen, rereading the last sentence he typed out. The words couldn’t stick to his mind due to the tall and lanky distraction pacing just in front of him.

“Colder...” Sherlock stopped, dead center in front of John, who has sat back in his chair, eyes off his blog post and arms settling criss cross against his chest.

“You could just tell me.”

"One million, four hundred thousand cats live in London.” Sherlock turned his gaze towards John expectantly. John returned the look, as it should be Sherlock delivering the point instead of John guessing it. Sherlock gives in first with a drawn out sigh. He strode to the window behind John and peered out, bright eyes darting back and forth, scanning the street below. “That’s ten thousand less than there were month ago.”

John blinks and tilts his head just slightly. “Ten thousand cats died in just a month?”

“Ten thousand in the last three weeks. ” Sherlock added. “And ten of those on Baker Street.” 

“How do you even know this?” 

Sherlock waived his phone at the doctor with a little smile. “I know a cat enthusiast.” 

“Okay… so a serial cat killer?” John frowned, eyebrows pulled together when Sherlock head snapped around to look at him. The look was nothing short of belittling, shaming John for even speaking that thought out loud. John hadn't truly been serious. “Cat food… treats, maybe?”

“There would have been a recall a month ago with a death toll like this.”

“Right…” John looked down at his laptop screen again and pursed his lips. His eyes darted back to Sherlock. Those crystal eyes brightened as John continued. ” But... with a death toll like this, we should have seen this in the papers or on the internet a month ago.”

“Exactly.”

 

\----

“You’re telling me, some people let you have their dead cats.” John stands just outside the kitchen, a foot from the feline corpses that had been dumped on the kitchen table. It was just after noon. Sherlock had dashed back out of the flat before John could ask any more about the sudden rise in pet deaths. John had just finished his blog when Sherlock came back home, this time sporting a plastic duffle bag.

John had protested, he really did, but it didn’t stop the detective from laying each cat out, no towel or newspaper beneath them, on the kitchen table. He set himself up with his microscope, swabs and tweezers as John ranted about sanitation and proper kitchen utility. Sherlock at least wore gloves and a sterile mask. But that didn’t make John feel any better about this whole situation. He’d prefer to be wearing a mask himself.

There were three dead cats on the table, no more than a day passed. Sherlock had collected hair samples, swabbed the inside of their mouths and checked for injuries. There were none. No broken bones, no open wounds, no sign of fight or struggle. What every killed then was much more subtle. 

“No.” Sherlock drawled out as he poked around at a particular orange tabby. “They’re strays. Freshly dead.”

Sherlock moved to sit in front of his microscope, smudging whatever contents he found on a blank slide. John’s grimaced, looking away from the table and Sherlock altogether. 

“Even better. Dead, flea infested, stray cats on the bloody kitchen table, but that’s alright at least no one is missing them!” 

 

“What did you say?” Sherlock looked up from his microscope. He stared just passed John, narrowed and searching. He wasn't letting on to anything he was thinking but that wasn't unusual. 

“Dead cats on the table, Sherlock!” John shouted and shook his hand at the display of felines, eyes blown wide and angry.

Sherlock hummed and returned to his position, face snug against the microscope. John hands curled into fists at his side and his jaw hung open. He looked at Sherlock, then at the cats, then back at the detective. Silence had fallen over the flat and John knew the one sided battle had been won. Sherlock was invested in his findings and John would just have to deal. 

“When did we start investigating all of London's damn pets anyway? Killer dogs and now dead cats…” John muttered as he retreated to his chair, where he attempted to calm his nerves with a good book he had picked up about a week before. 

The cats and Sherlock remained in the kitchen for another few hours. But this whole dead cat thing loomed in John's mind threateningly. He had no idea what was going on and if Sherlock did, he wasn’t sharing the information yet. That wasn’t unusual and John would give it a little more time until he became intolerably curious. But there were dead cats on his table and a very determined Sherlock Holmes at work. John didn’t know how long his patience would last.

\---

“So… were they sick?”

Sherlock was on his laptop now. Night had fallen and he wasn’t saying much. He still hadn’t cleaned up the dead cats but John chose to ignore that. 

“Yes.” Sherlock answered, fingers moving rapidly over the keys. He paused when John's phone went off but only for a split second. John didn't bother looking just yet. 

“With what?”

“Don’t know.” He paused, clicking on a link and frowning as pictures of text popped up in front of him. “Something new.” 

“How do you mean?”

Sherlock looked up but didn’t turn around to face John. He rested his elbows on the desk in front of him and pressed his fingertips together. He rested his lips against them and didn’t answer his flatmate. 

“Sherlock, how do you mean?” John prodded again. 

“Man made, obviously.” Sherlock paused, staring ahead for a good few moments. John had abandoned his book in favor of staring at his flatmate, waiting for a better explanation. When nothing else was said, John cleared his throat.

“Obviously you know more.”

“It’s a brand new bacteria, not natural but engineered. Most likely a weapon… considering where it came from.”

“And where did it come from?” John was growing quickly impatient. A bacterial weapon would be biological warfare, not a fun thing to play with and not something that should be exposed the the dense population of a city like London. So how did it get there, why was it killing all the cats and- John released a heavy breath. “Sherlock, are we in danger?”

“I don’t know, John.” The detective snapped. John’s insides twisted. Those few words alone alarmed John more than any of this. 

Sherlock stood up and beckoned John over with a curl of his finger. He stood up and crossed the room to read the police reports up on screen. “The bacteria came here from a lab just outside of London. There was a raid, three weeks ago. Some… animal rescue breached the labs, gathered up a few experiments and fled. They were arrested, you see? The next day and all the animals returned… except a pair of rats.”

“And the rats were carrying the new bacteria.”

“Obviously.” John straightened, turned towards Sherlock who was staring off. The gears in his mind were grinding and John felt overwhelmingly uneasy. 

“But only cats are dying, what about the rat population? And what about people, Sherlock? Are they in danger?”

“Possibly, yes since it is communicable.” Sherlock frowns and bends down to switch to a different window on the laptop. “I tried finding any deaths around london, unusual deaths, cat owner deaths and nothing. There is… almost… nothing.”

“Almost?”

“I found this.” Sherlock stepped back to let John read what he had pulled up on screen.

Alan Victor, thirty two years old, single and living in a flat alone with three cats. He had died the passed Friday, from a heart attack it said, and when the police got there the cats were gone. They assume they left through the flap in the door leading through the garden and they were no where to be seen. The police were called by a friend, who strangely said he was coming by to lend moral support because of one of the recently deceased cats, but there was no corpse to be found. Even more strange about the entire thing, was the alarming amount of cat scratches and bites on Victor’s arm, face and shoulders.

“You think whatever this was, killed Alan Victor?” John asked, looking up at Sherlock. 

“I think… someone is trying very hard to cover up ten thousand cat deaths and an unknown number of human deaths, and just happened to miss Alan Victor.”

“But who.. and why, if we’re in danger, why are they hiding this? When did you find out about this?”

“Oh… during the last case. Remember? The second family, with the dead daughter-.”

“Anne.” John frowned as he said her name. Sherlock blinked, clearly finding the information of no use. “Her name was Anne.”

“Anne had been mourning her precious Kitten’s death in the backyard when the neighbors dog attacked her. The neighbor said she had lost her cat too, two days before. A bit unusual don’t you think? Two dead cats right next to each other. And then I overheard, at the veterinarian's office, that they were up to twenty cat visits, all resulting in the cat’s death.” Sherlock squinted at John when he paused and John could see the insult coming from a mile away. “Don’t you remember the case at all or do you just choose to ignore the important bits?”

“I was busy, both times, comforting the people, Sherlock.” John said flatly.

“And flirting with the receptionist…” Sherlock rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. John’s hand balled into fists as his mouth opened, then closed.

“I- shut up- I was not flirting with anyone, I was getting information!” 

“If by information you mean her next night off and her phone number, then sure…” 

“This- Sherlock- really? There’s a new bacteria ravaging London’s pet population, and you’re jealous?”

“I’m not jealous!” Sherlock practically shouted. John ducked his head and flailed his hand towards the open door. He could just imagine Mrs. Hudson grinning and chuckling over another one of their “little domestics”.

“What was that? I didn’t hear you!” John shouted back, eyes wide and lips pulled into a tight line. Sherlock glared and John stood his ground. They stood, John holding onto the desk and Sherlock’s arms remaining cross, for a good few minutes before Sherlock rolled his eyes and released an irritated huff of breath through his nose.

“This has to be hidden, John. You asked why they are hiding it, and it’s because it’s already… out of control.” Sherlock slowed down as the last three words left his lips. John blinked a few times. He didn’t like the sound of that. In fact, it was frightening, it made him incredibly uneasy and he demanded more information out of the other man.

“What do you mean out of control?”

“I don’t know…” Sherlock’s eyes were darting back and forth and up and down. Frustration drew lines across his face as he brought his hands up, fingers near his temples.

“I really hate those words coming out of your mouth, you know that?”

“Shut up, just… shut up.” 

“How can I shut up when there’s a new bacteria-.”

“Shut up, John!” Sherlock shouted, turning away from him and towards the window. “Think, just.. think.”

John ran his hand through his hand, fingers curling through the strands. His heart was racing and he was moments from shouting himself. He was a doctor and he was well aware of bacteria and how fast it could spread and populate in an area. If it was killing any mammal, that was a bad sign, and Sherlock was right. Ten thousand deaths covered up could only mean that London had a serious problem. It could be spreading already from cat to owner, and owner to other people. 

Just when John was about to scream, Sherlock turned back around towards him and grabbed his arm. The detective pulled his flat mate collar and, without warning, slipped his hand into John's pocket. He slipped his hand back out, John’s mobile clutched in his fingers.

“Lestrade.” Sherlock murmured, opening the new message. He knew he would have a message, maybe even two but his phone was left on the kitchen table and he had ignored the messages in favor of the dead cats. 

“What’s it say?” John asked rhetorically, ripping the phone from Sherlock’s grasp to view it himself.

Need Sherlock!- GL

“Well that’s not very specific.” John frowned. 

“John.”

“Well I guess we’re off to the yard, then?” John asked, pocketing his phone and looking up at his flatmate. Sherlock’s eyes stared dead ahead, wide and shocked. John frowned. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, not because he didn’t want to, his mouth opened just a bit before snapping shut. 

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?” John asked, concerned. He glanced over his own shoulder quick then back at Sherlock. Then he did a double take, because he couldn’t have just seen what he thought he saw. But, when he glanced over his shoulder again, there was no denying it. He turned around completely, jaw dropping.

John was completely sure all three cats had been dead, they hadn’t moved at all for the few hours they’d been in their flat. He was a doctor, after all. He knew dead when he saw it. But, considering what he was looking at now, the rules had changed.

“That was a dead cat.” John whispered harshly to the man behind him. Sherlock blinked rapidly, his mind in a frenzy. John was right. That was a dead cat. But now it wasn’t. It stood, on all fours, despite the fact that Sherlock had dissected only hours previous.

“That was definitely a dead cat.” 

The two flatmates stood there, still as statues and eyes not leaving the horrifying scene in front of them. The orange tabby that Sherlock had thoroughly evaluated was standing on the the surface. It insides were now outside, at least some of them. It was a bloody mess, the organs stringing from the belly and emptying onto the table. The blood wasn’t fresh, however, indicating to both Sherlock and John, that the cat had indeed been dead for quite some time. It’s eyes, perhaps once green with black slit pupils were now pale yellow and pupils wide.

It stumbled forward and John stepped back, his back colliding with Sherlock’s chest. Orange fur fell like flurries from the skin and sprinkled onto the kitchen table. The cat opened his mouth to release a deranged sound, like a croaking.

“It’s alive.” John breathed. He didn’t budge from his new spot against the detective. The ex soldier was not easily frightened, that was all around well known to Sherlock and anyone who knew him. But he couldn’t deny he was considerably concerned that there was a zombie stray cat standing in the archway. “Jesus.”

“I don’t think it is, John.”

“Sherlock.” John hissed

“I mean I don’t think it is alive.” Sherlock clarified in a hushed tone.

“It’s standing and making noise at us.”

“Yes and it’s entire digestive system is on the table, John. Alive is not a possibility.”

Silence fell over them both. The cat stumbled again, this time right off the table. John covered his mouth as the feline landed, not on it’s feet but it’s side. Guts followed, piling onto the floor and blood drained out of the corpse like ooze. It didn’t even cry out.

“Fascinating.” Sherlock slid away from John, his eyes not leaving the animal currently pulling itself to it’s feet.

“Don’t touch it, Sherlock.” The detective glanced John briefly, considering his words.

“It doesn’t appear to be very quick.” Sherlock replied and took two careful steps closer to the animal. He was still a foot from the bloody mess when he took a knee to get a closer look. Hair continued to drop off the feline, leaving bald patches. No saliva in or around it’s mouth, just hints of coagulated blood. It’s eyes seemed to be working, despite the discoloration, as they followed Sherlock’s movement. It must not feel pain, or it wouldn’t be standing, and it was barely breathing. 

The only reasonable explanation was the bacteria for certain, but how it was working inside it’s host was still a grand mystery.

“It’s definitely dead, it’s not even breathing… you can see me, but I wonder how well. Can you hear?”

Sherlock’s hands came together in a loud clap, startling both John and the cat. It hissed, stumbling backwards and swiping a front paw in Sherlock’s direction, though rather slowly. Aggressive and frightened. Sherlock lowered his hands and stood up. He neared the cat without faltering and it began to growl and hiss hysterically, bouncing backwards as best it was able to missing it’s organs and supporting a rather large incision. John cursed behind Sherlock.

“Get away from it, Sherlock.” He demanded, loud enough that it sent the cat once more into a frenzy, shaking it’s head and swinging it’s paws.

The detective stood still for a few moments before the cat lashed out again, this time quicker and closer to Sherlock. The detective jumped back with a quick breath, his heart stopping for a moment. He knew one scratch and that bacteria would transfer, as well as anything else the cat had collected since it’s death. Perhaps keeping it alive was not the brighter idea. He was didn’t want to kill it, though. He needed data, information so he could understand what was actually happening.

John didn’t think so. The only thing John could think was danger, danger, danger. This was a completely unknown virus and they were exposing themselves to it. They had little idea of what it was truly capable of, only that it killed… and obviously resurrected. Neither of those things sounded pleasant. There was only one option in John’s mind, unfortunately for Sherlock.

John moved forward, pushing the detective back.

“John, no!” The detective reached out for his friend but it was too late. John raised his foot and with all his energy and strength, he all but punted the cat from the doorway of the kitchen straight back. It collided with a sickening crack against the leg of the kitchen table.

It hit the floor again, eyes still open and mouth hanging open. It croaked once more, paws twitching and then suddenly went still. Sherlock and John both held their breath, neither of them completely convinced that it wasn’t going to get right back up. Time ticked by and the feline did nothing. It laid there, very still with no sign of breath. Sherlock twisted his head to look at John with raised eyebrows.

“Feel better?”

“How did it come back to life, Sherlock?”

“Do you really think I know, John?” Sherlock snapped, straightening his neck and piercing John with a glare. It was obvious that his frustrations of the unknown was getting the better of him. He didn’t like not knowing, didn’t like the uneasiness it caused or the ache in the back of his head as he overworked his brain.“You think I know how to resurrect the dead? And if I did, don’t you think I’d go about solving my murder cases a little differently? I have no idea what is happening, but yes it is the bacteria because it has to be. That cat… it was different, the bacteria was different. Like a mutated copy of the original bacteria.”

“Mutated? The bacteria mutated?”

“Yes.” Sherlock knelt beside the cat and looked at it closely but didn’t even attempt to touch it.

“Well, that’s just great!” John ran his fingers through his hair, grabbing hold of the little strands. “No bacteria should be able to do that, Sherlock. Nothing can bring a dead body back to life, especially hours after death. How does it restart the heart? You need an electric pulse, and even then, the brain would be entirely useless!”

“Well, did you see it?” Sherlock snapped. “It didn’t even feel pain, John.”

“So you think most of brain was dead.”

“Definitely. But not all of it.”

“Well, would you get away from it? You could be infected by now.”

“Highly doubt it. No fleas.”

“What?” 

Sherlock stood up, to John’s appreciation, and turned towards the doctor. “You said earlier, ‘flea infested’.”

“Yes.” John drew out the word slowly, squinting at the detective as he tried to figure out where he was going with that.

“I was trying to figure out how the bacteria spread so quickly. You were wrong, these cats are not flea infested. But, they used to be.” John nodded his head to Sherlock’s words, finally understanding him. “The fleas are carrying the bacteria. From rodent, to cat… and to any other warm blooded animal.”

“That would include humans.”

Sherlock took in a breath through his nose, lips pulled tight as he straightened his coat and shifted his shoulders. “Like I said, whatever this is… it is already out of control.”

The two of them stood in silence. Sherlock had wrapped his head around all the evidence so far. But this was unlike anything he’d ever seen. It was scaring him, though he didn’t let on to that. It was scaring the living hell out of him. John was in no better position. Fear grasped him like it hadn’t since he was in the battlefield, bullets blazing and men dying all around him. He was truly afraid, to the point where his mind was blank and his body ached. 

The only thing that brought the two out of their head spaces was a familiar blaring siren. Lights lit up Baker Street entirely and had the two residence of 221B Baker Street looking towards the window. They both knew who it was, when the sirens ended their song just outside their flat. The fear spiked to an unbelievable height in that very moment for the doctor, because he knew Lestrade hadn’t texted him, and wasn’t here now, due to coincidence. 

The dead were coming back to life.


	2. The Dead Come Knocking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade comes to Sherlock after his first encounter with the recently risen dead. Mycroft also drops by 221B to shed light on the truly devastating situation. The boys are not prepared for what happens and Sherlock sheds his cool exterior after a great loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I am sorry for the rewrite but I have to say I'm much more satisfied with it. If you've caught on, I took the original Chapter Two and split it up between these two first rewritten chapters. This chapter is extremely long, but I'm okay with that. Since I had both of these chapters rewritten and up to my standards, I've decided to post them back to back tonight. This was a difficult chapter, as writing an emotional Sherlock is never easy. I don't want to run his character into the ground with something entirely unbelievable and hope that I was able to maintain his true character.
> 
> Once more, your feedback would be extremely appreciated. I'm open to ideas, in fact, from the readers of what they would like to see happen in the following chapters.

“Do either of you ever answer your bloody phones?!” Greg stood in their doorway, his face red and dripping with sweat despite the cold temperatures of December outside the flat.

He was out of breath, his hand was on his gun and he looked like hell. John and Sherlock faced him, but their eyes flickered to the dead cat just feet away from the inspector. He noticed and looked to his left. He cringed at the sight of it. “What the bloody hell?”

“The dogs are alive.” Sherlock said and Lestrade looked back up at him with wide, worried and confused eyes. Greg didn't feel it was the right time to be asking questions about how Sherlock knew that. So he nodded his head then stopped, eyes coding as he ran a hand over the top of his head. 

“Well- they’re dead now. Real dead.”

“How?”

“What?”

“ _How_ did you kill them, Lestrade?” Sherlock demanded, searching the man’s face. He almost certainly knew the answer but Lestrade responded anyways.

“The only thing that put them down… a shot to the head.”

“Of course.” Sherlock murmured, twisting around to look at John who was still peering outside. “The brainstem. Nervous system. That’s basically all that’s left. That’s why they don’t feel pain…”

“You know about it, then? Is that what the cat is all about?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock approached John, putting his hand on his shoulder. “It was breathing again, it’s blood was starting to move and that’s why it could start moving John. It’s brain stem is intact and… reignited. But it was afraid so that means other parts of the brain are alive as well.”

“Sherlock.” John said, who was standing facing the window. 

“I saw those two dogs die.” Lestrade stated. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, don’t do that! Sherlock, my men are frightened. I’m frightened.”

“As you should be.” Sherlock replied. 

“Sherlock…” John raised his voice, looking at the detective for a moment before peering outside. Sherlock groaned and faced his flatmate.

“What, John?” Sherlock snapped. John laughed, though it was bitter, and pointed out the window. Sherlock stepped forward to peer out the window again.

“Your brother is here.”

\----

Mrs Hudson had joined them upon Mycroft’s arrival. The flat was silent and the dead cats were still not cleaned up, much to everyone’s (except Sherlock but especially Mrs. Hudson) disapproval. Lestrade and his companions stood in the middle of the room, Sherlock by the fireplace and Mrs Hudson close to him. John sat in his chair across from Mycroft, who sat in Sherlock’s, his fingers laced and back straightened.

John was staring Mycroft down the bridge of his nose, his chin raised and teeth grinding behind his lips. Mycroft ignored him in favor of staring at his brother, waiting patiently for his eruption. But Sherlock was half stuck in his own mind to bother with anything else. The dead should not be able to come back alive, especially not hours after it’s departure. Nothing known to man could produce that. The brain wouldn’t and clearly didn’t survive it, most of it’s information emptied, the gray matter would be useless. It would, at most, have basic instincts, like hunger and maintaining it’s breathing. But it also showed signs of fear and Sherlock was trying to understand how other parts of the brain could be functioning. At the same time, he was calculating the danger, considering how fast the bacteria had spread from cat to cat, and how it had mutated.

“Well?” John broke the ice. The whole room glanced at him, then at Mycroft who took a deep breath in through his nose. He clasped his hands together and Sherlock scoffed.

“Typical. The whole of London is falling apart and you couldn’t be bothered to _tell me_.” The younger brother finally snapped.

“I couldn’t tell you.” Mycroft said calmly, far to calmly for anyone’s liking. Mrs Hudson gapped at the elder Holmes and John’s hands twitched, gripping the arms of his chair. Mycroft rolled his eyes and looked away from his younger brother. “Were you too busy to catch on sooner?”

“Yes, I was.” Sherlock managed through his teeth. His eyes read murder and John wished he would, just this once. 

“I doubt it. Perhaps just blind-.”

“Mycroft Holmes!” Mrs. Hudson shouted, shifting closer to Sherlock. “Our lives are in danger. Do you have no decency?”

Mycroft looked ready to burst but with his brother’s unforgiving glare shot at him, he took a moment to collect himself before speaking. He opened his mouth, but it took a few seconds before he seemed to find the right words. “This… bacteria was a mistake. Foolish children have put the lives of London in danger, not me.”

John laughed, softly and mockingly. He shook his head, looking at Sherlock who still kept his glare on Mycroft. John looked back at the man seated across from him. “Not you?”

“No.” Mycroft replied in a low voice. “Not me.”

“ _Liar._ ” Sherlock hissed. “You _liar_.”

“Oh, don’t act like I caused this. I was told to cover it up and I did, after being reassured that it was being handled with the utmost care.”

“But it’s not, is it? It’s falling apart, it’s spreading to quickly and now it’s mutating.” Sherlock’s fingers curled and uncurled. John found himself staring at those slender hands, pink and veins popping due to stress. The urge to hold them was pushed down and aside.

“Mutating?” Lestrade chimed in.

“Yes… the dead are supposed to stay dead. At first, that’s what was happening. You caught the bacteria and it killed you. But, due to it’s nature, it mutated into something far more dangerous.” Sherlock strode over to the dead cat in the middle of the floor and nudged it with his foot. Mrs Hudson grimaced, turning her head away. “So when will the people…”

“Start coming back from the dead?” Mycroft finished his question. He sighed, lowering his gaze. “Within the next 48 hours… give or take.”

“They’ll quarantine the whole London?” Lestrade asked.

“It’s too late.” Mycroft watched his brother, who was now leaning on John’s chair, his fingers digging into the fabric. Realization had dawned onto Sherlock.

“Why?” The inspector glanced, puzzled at Sherlock who let out a bark of laughter.

“It was too late a week ago. Oh, wonderful. Globalization is wonderful, don’t you all think? Planes and trains zipping out of every major city every minute of every day, taking them halfway across the world and back? Millions of people traveling every single day and this started three weeks ago.”

Mycroft didn’t speak, but the gloom expression on his face confirmed every word. John cursed under his breath and Mrs. Hudson sniffled into her hand. The room was tense, they all were facing a situation unlike anything they had ever faced together. This was unfathomable; the dead rising yet here they were. All of them, except Mrs. Hudson, had seen it clear as day.

“What does this mean?” Mrs. Hudson pleaded, her eyes darting between the two brothers. Mycroft remained silent which only deepened Sherlock’s glare. The elder tried to wait it out but it seemed Sherlock had more patience. Mycroft sighed once more, audibly.

“This bacteria was meant to be something of a… cure. It has strong regenerative qualities and was in the process of testing. Since it’s release, it has spread at an alarming rate which has led the rapid mutation that was not foreseen.” Mycroft glanced around at the people surrounding him. Perhaps he saw that as nothing more than goldfish once, but now, he looked upon each of them with some level of true concern. “It has reached the human population in it’s mutated state, which, as most of you have seen tonight, brings the dead back to life. Regenerative properties at work.”

“So there are human victims?” John interjected.

“Yes, they have been found and confined as the brightest minds work on a way to stop this before…” Mycroft lips pulled into a tight, forced smile. John felt every nerve in his body flare and barely resisted the urge to throw himself at the government official with a nasty punch. Mycroft continued, looking at his brother with a serious expression now, lips pulled thin and eyes dark.

"Unfortunately, once the dead come back they are only a ghost of what they were. The entire brain shuts down to the bare minimum, the majority of personality and memories are lost. The subjects in custody... show aggressive behavior that most likely stems from fear. This makes them all the more dangerous, the majority of them lash out and attack while the remaining run, hide, or simply do not react at all. They do not discriminate during their attacks and will kill themselves, other infected, and the alive all the same."

Lestrade rubbed his face as the information sinked in. “So, I should be expecting to shoot down human beings?”

“Currently, there is no other alternative.” Mycroft replied flatly. “One bite, perhaps even a scratch, and you’ll die.”

“Oh dear.” Mrs. Hudson sobbed, pushing her head to John’s shoulder. 

Mycroft nodded in agreement. “Indeed.” 

 

\----

_“There will be a car arriving Six a.m. sharp for you, John and Mrs. Hudson.”_

_“ What about everyone else, Mycroft?”_ Sherlock’s voice was even, but it was clear that he struggled. 

_“What can I do, Sherlock? Save everyone?_ ” Mycroft sighed heavily behind the closed door. If John did know better, he’d say that tone was laced with guilt. There was a short pause between the brothers.

“ _Why not?_ ” The disparity made Mrs. Hudson flinched, bowing her head and John squeezed her shoulder.

“ _I’m sorry_ ”

“ _Go to Hell_.”

John and Mrs. Hudson retreated back into the room. Lestrade had left with his officers before Mycroft, a call about more animals rising from graves. It was going to be a long night for the inspector. He had a city to keep safe, but everyone, even him, knew that in the end it would hardly make a difference. But, it was his duty. 

John didn’t let him leave without a proper handshake and a reminder to ‘Aim for the head’. Mycroft claimed he had little time, but would see them all soon before leading Sherlock down the steps. The two remaining couldn’t help but listen into the conversation and Sherlock was well aware of it when he joined them again.

He was fuming when he entered the flat. He slammed the door behind him and grabbed handful of his hair with a string of loud curses falling from his lips. Everyone knew Sherlock was far from emotional and for the two standing by watching, this was new and horrifying. The detective lowered himself to sit on the sofa, head still planted in his hands. 

"You should... try to get some rest, Mrs Hudson." John kept his voice down and eyes on his best friend. "And pack your bags."

She nodded, her hand curled tight around a tissue that she held to get lips. She stood for a moment longer before sniffling and taking her leave. There was nothing she could do. Sherlock hadn't moved till the door shut and behind their landlady. His head snapped up and John felt the weight of stress when he made contact with those red eyes. 

He had woken up that morning, a normal Sunday morning and it had been lovely. It was not even 12 hours later and his whole world was upside down. He was telling Mrs. Hudson to pack her bags and he was trying to come to terms with something that hadn’t even happened yet. A dead cat had risen, impossibly, in the middle of his flat. He always thought that if we to ever face something on a scale like this, he might have some notice. He knew better, that danger was lurking everywhere and you would most likely never know it was there until it was too late.

"I'll call Molly... tell her to stay safe, let her know what's going on if she can even believe me." John started to fish his phone from his pocket.

"They're all going to die." 

"Shut up." John snapped. "You don't know that."

"Balance of probability." Sherlock sat back against the sofa, eyes anywhere but John who was visibly becoming tense. Of course he would face the end of the world with a man who had the emotional capacity of an infant. As if solving murder crimes wasn't hard enough, dealing with Sherlock’s misplaced desire to solve deathly puzzles, his lack of proper social behavior and his irrational and untimely mood swings. Now it was the end of the world and here they were. Logic over emotions even when there was nothing (logically) to be done about it. "Half of London is infected and they don't even know it! One bite, one infectious scratch and it spreads. It turns people into mindless and extremely aggressive animals."

Sherlock threw his head back. "London... is dead John."

“Those are our friends out there!”

“My brother has decided they are not worth anything. We will be escorted out of London and held in what will soon be the most secured area in the UK. There, we can watch as the entire nation falls apart…”

\----

Monday, just after three in the morning, Sherlock and John sat across one another in their appropriate chairs.

Their bags were packed and Sherlock’s violin was in it’s case setting by the door. Mrs. Hudson was downstairs, asleep, John hoped. But he was sure it was not likely, not with the weight of everything they knew and everything yet to happen resting on their shoulders. John himself couldn’t find it in him to even try to shut his eyes for any lengthy amount of time.

John had gotten in touch with Molly, who consistently asked if she was being led on. By the end, she was concerned and even frightened. John told her to stay home. Then he had called his sister, who was already in custody of Mycroft’s protection. That actually came as a surprise, a very pleasant surprise. John thought about biting the bullet and actually thanking Mycroft when he saw him next. Then he went through his address book, attempting to warn friends about that oncoming storm. He basically threw secrecy out the window, to hell with the government, because people he knew and loved were in serious danger. He begged them to get out, to get out of London before it was too late.

Sherlock had been quiet, for the most part. He was lost within his head, processing everything over and over until it made him want to scream. He tried to play any good likely scenario, but it was no use. This would end in blood and death, great amounts of it. Sherlock gauged a six month period of complete and absolute chaos, diminishing government, economy, and society. He calculated that there would be a thirty to twenty five percent of the human population left by then. It would be enough to start over again, but it would take a lifetime and more to pull the global society back together.

He would be spending the next six months in safety while the world burnt down around the survivors. He would be expected to assist in the recovery of the situation, no doubt, while people like John and Mrs. Hudson would get to sit by twiddling their thumbs. No more murders (real ones, anyways), no more puzzles, no more Baker Street. London would fall, and there was nothing he could do. The thought tore him up inside more than he ever thought possible. He knew this city better than anyone could ever imagine. He knew it like a lover knew their partner, every inch and mark. He wouldn’t even be able to properly say goodbye.

While the boys sat, lost in their minds, Mrs Hudson was sat in her kitchen with her packed bags. She was exhausted, yet sleep didn’t come. She was clueless as to what was about to come, the true devastation about to approach. But she sat tense, understanding enough to feel detached from reality. She thought about the rest of her life, as the boys above her did. She thought about the whole of London falling and her heart broke within her chest. All the people she knew,she had been told, would die. There was a piece of her screaming that it was impossible only to be silenced by the fear she saw in the Holmes brother's. She couldn't conjure any solid mental pictures without gasping and tears flooding over. She had half the mind to join the detective and the doctor because alone she felt crushed under this unknown weight.

At least, she thought to herself, she was to be saved. But in the end would it prove to be a blessing or a punishment?

John stirred upstairs, bringing his hand up to rub his jaw while studying the man across from him. Sherlock was focused on John but he was seeing right through him. John began to wish that he could for once see what Sherlock was thinking but realized quickly that would be more frightening than his own thoughts. The silence had finally become annoying and unwanted as usual.

John opened his mouth to end the silence, but before he even spoke, he closed his mouth again. He could hear something although it was very faint. He tilted his head, squinting as he listened. Sherlock looked back at John, clearly hearing the same noise. They could hear a thumping, soft, steady and coming from down stairs, possibly from the front door. It got louder as seconds passed and began to pick up speed.

John and Sherlock looked at each other before looking towards the stairs. The thumping continued and John stood; alarmed. It was too early to be Mycroft and too late for anyone else. There was only one thing that crossed their minds.

It had begun.

Sherlock moved to the window and glanced out at the street. It was empty, for the most part. But there on the sidewalk he could see a woman bumbling around as if she was drunk. There was a possibility she was, but there was a twist in his stomach which made him believe she wasn’t. Directly below the windows was whoever was currently knocking on their door. Sherlock could only make up the top of the head and just barely.

A red flag went off in his head then and he twisted around, heading for the door. “Mrs. Hudson, don’t answer it!”

He raced down the steps, John practically on his heels with his pistol in his hand. He had left it out intentionally a few hours previous. He was incredibly glad he had.

“Don’t answer it!” Sherlock was shouting as they bounded down the stairs They made it to the foyer within seconds. Mrs. Hudson was already there, unlocking the door, moments from opening it. “It’s not safe!”

“Don’t open that door-.” But it was too late. John stopped on the last step, gun in his hands yet he was frozen.

Her scream resonated through the entire building as arms swung out at her from the other side of the doorway. The man was making noises but it was no language, just growls and screeching. He was in a frenzy, rapidly swinging and grabbing Mrs. Hudson. She stumbled backwards and the man (if you could call it that anymore) followed her in, looking mostly normal besides a pale and sweaty features and yellowing, blown eyes. Not to mention it was stumbling and lashing out all teeth and dull nails. They were, without doubt, infected. It didn’t let up on it’s rabid attack, it’s intent clearly to kill.

“Sherlock!” The landlady cried as she hit the floor. The infected was still swinging, rapidly and in pure rage. Everything had moved so fast, without warning. It grabbed hold of her throat, raising her off the floor as it’s nailed dug deep into her skin. She couldn’t see, her world was going black with no air to her lungs.

It was unbearably painful, those large, cold hands crushing her windpipe. She struggled, her hands on the man’s face, pushing and scratching. His reflexes were quick and as soon as she was close, his teeth sunk into her hand without mercy. She would have screamed, if she could.

“Shoot, John!” Sherlock shouted, eyes wide and scared. “Shoot!”

John didn’t know why he had lost himself. With a curse and a sucked in a breath, he raised his weapon and aimed. Then he pulled the trigger. The shot left a ringing in their ears and a dead man in their foyer.

“Oh god.” John gasped. Mrs. Hudson was attempting to pull herself out from under the dead weight of the man. There was blood all over her, in her eyes and dripping in her mouth that was open, choking for breath. Her throat had been crushed, littered with scratches and bruising. Her eyes were red, watering and showed ice cold fear.

“No.” Sherlock breathed, rushing to her aid. He drug her away from the body with a groan and laid her down near John’s feet. His eyes were wide and wild, fear and anger swirling as silver and grey blues. She couldn’t breathe, not well enough and she was fading quick. Her face was draining of color, her eyes were fluttering shut.

Sherlock held her head in his hands, careless of the blood and watched as she choked. “No, no, no!”

John rushed to shut the door, making the walls shake with it’s force. The last thing they needed was any more unwanted company. He brought himself down to a knee beside Mrs. Hudson, his body feeling impossible heavy and head aching. He covered his mouth with his shaking fingers, “Oh fuck.”

She was grabbing Sherlock tight, but her grasp was quickly losing strength. Sherlock rocked her gently, his breathing labored and eyes looking desperately at John. There was nothing either of them could do for her now and they both knew that.

“Mrs. Hudson… I’m so sorry.” John whispered, running his hand over her forehead. His eyes were hot and wet, dripping with tears. He had seen great men die in his own care, but this was something entirely different. This was a woman who could never be replaced, who should have never been touched. This woman had been there for them, time and time again.

If he had just shot _faster_.

“She’s dying.” Sherlock didn’t need to state it, but he couldn’t help himself. “John, she’s dying.”

John squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and when he reopened him, he saw her face. It was relaxed, eyes closed and lips parted. John reached out, grabbing her hands and pressing his fingers to her pulse. He thought he felt it, a soft murmur of her heart. But if it had been there, it was gone in a few seconds.

John met Sherlock’s eyes once more, and without a word told the detective all he needed to know. Sherlock sat back as if he had been hit, landing on his tailbone with his legs bent. His hands were smeared with blood and they hung between his knees.

John rested against the wall near Mrs. Hudson’s head. Tears flowed freely from his eyes, while Sherlock struggled with himself. John was silent. What could either of them even say? The Doctor sat back, head against the wall as he processed what had just happened. If he just had shot sooner- she’d still be alive. It was his fault that Mrs. Hudson was dead between him and the detective. She was supposed to survive, to be airlifted out of London before the chaos would even start. Instead she was here, murdered in her own home, at her front door. She had been helpless and John had been a bloody idiot.

Sherlock was stunned, staring at the wall in a daze. His eyes were dull, miserable and his lower lip twitched as he tried to block out the emotions. He had spent all his life perfecting his way of dealing with them. Block them out and think logically. That was who he was, detached from human emotions to get by in a world that was ruled by them.

A sob broke past the detective’s lips, just one. Sherlock, as his facade began to crumble faster than he could repair it, could hear his brother’s words mocking him.

_“All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage… Sherlock.”_

 

\-----

 

An hour had passed.

John had been tempted to call Lestrade, but realized there would be no point. If this had reached their front door, John could only imagine Lestrade had his hands full. Mrs. Hudson’s death would only be the first of so many more. As much as it pissed him off, he knew that it didn’t matter. Her death didn’t matter, to anyone but himself and Sherlock.

They moved her into her flat. They laid her on her couch and covered her with a sheet. They hated every moment of it. John cursed under his breath and grinded his teeth. He tried to sit by with the detective. Sherlock had been silent since her death and once she had been moved, he didn’t leave her side. His eyes never left the sheet covered form. Even when John left and retreated upstairs, Sherlock didn’t move. He knew the army doctor would be back.

John moved their bags downstairs, next to the front door. He stared at the dead man laying there, blood pooling from the bullet hole in his head. He wondered who he was before he had turned into this. Looking at him, John was sure he couldn’t be more than a few hours dead at most. He had just been a man like himself and like that he had lost his mind, turned into something rabid and had killed one of his loved ones.

He bent down over the man and searched him, patting his pockets until he found his wallet. Pulling it out, he pulled his I.D. from it’s spot and read the name.

Matthew R. Cross. He was twenty eight years old and a father. There was a picture of his family in his wallet, a little girl with brown curls and a pretty woman with a big smile. John closed his eyes, rubbed his forehead roughly and sighed.

“Poor bastard.” He murmured, laying the wallet and I.D. on the man’s back. They would be leaving their flat anyways.

He needed to check on Sherlock. He didn’t feel right leaving him alone though he didn’t want to sit and watch their landlady’s corpse any longer. He left the man there and walked back down the foyer and back into Mrs. Hudson’s flat.

He was still sitting where John left him, in an armchair and staring at the dead body. John tried not to look at her, even though she was covered. His tears had dried up, but emotion pulled heavy on his insides, twisting them and making him sick. He stood next to Sherlock, putting his hand on the back of the chair to lean.

“Sherlock…”

“I’m waiting.” The detective snapped. “I’m not leaving yet.”

“Waiting?” The doctor asked gently.

“Yes.” Sherlock took in a deep breath and leaned forward. “I’m waiting for her to come back.”

John was taken back. He had been so wrapped up in the fact that she had just died that he didn’t even entertain the possibility of her returning. Now he understood why Sherlock hadn’t left her side yet, not because he was mourning but because he needed to see it happen. John swallowed down his emotions and curled his hands into fists. That thought was basically intolerable.

“Why?” He asked, his tone low and almost dangerous

“Because I need data.” Sherlock snapped and looked up at the doctor. His eyes were guarded and completely unforgiving. “Don’t get sentimental, John. She’s dead and she’s not going to stay dead. If I were you, I’d get your gun ready.”

John’s jaw hung as anger boiled hot in his belly. “Sentimental? I wasn’t the only one crying an hour ago, you asshole!”

“You will be this time, if you don’t pull the trigger a little faster.” Sherlock’s words hurt, and he knew they hurt but it didn’t stop him. John reeled back, his fist tight and heavy as he swung and collided with Sherlock’s face. The detective yelped out of surprise, holding his nose which began to bleed almost instantly. He stood up, tilting his head back just a little and pinching the bridge of his nose. “What the hell?!”

“You’re being a cock!”

“Oh fuck off!” Sherlock stormed past him and into the kitchen. He grabbed a tissue and forcefully twisted the faucet on. John fell heavily into the armchair, still warm from Sherlock’s body. He felt absolutely no guilt over punching Sherlock square in the face. But there was some part of him that felt bad for the detective. John knew the man had never been great with his feelings. He knew that he had more trouble expressing them than most people and when he did express them it was usually utterly terrible.

John sighed heavily through his nose. The anger was still twisting it’s ugly head inside him, but he needed to remember who he was dealing with. That punch should have done some good, and there was no good reason to get in actual fight with Sherlock, considering everything they were facing. He blew a puff of air from his lips and nodded to himself. He would be the bigger man, if he had to be.

Finally, John raised his gaze and dared to look over at the sheet covered corpse. Only, the sheet was no longer covering her and she was no longer laying down. John jumped up, nearly falling over the chair. He was quick, this time, to pull his pistol from where it was secured and aim it directly at her head.

“Holy hell. Sherlock!”

The detective was gently dabbing his nose with a wet cloth, riding his skin of the blood and blocking out the the throbbing pain that was rippling through his head. He was murmuring to himself, cursing John and swearing he would pass on the punch as soon as he saw his brother.

When he heard John shout for him, he moved a quick as possible. He dropped the rag and dashed out of the kitchen. He was joking himself when he thought he’d be ready to see her there, sitting up, blood smeared across her dead face and choking as she tried to breathe. Like the rest of them, her eyes were pale yellow and pupils dilated. It cut him deep, but he hid it. He pushed down the pain and looked at her properly.

She didn’t move, but her eyes were fixated on John.

“John, step back.” Sherlock said slowly. That seemed to draw Mrs. Hudson’s attention to him instead. Her head tilted and she opened her mouth, but she could only gasp. Her throat was still crushed, and Sherlock wondered how the bacteria was able to keep her alive with such a lack of oxygen. Clearly she could hear them, she could even see them.

“Do I shoot her?” John hissed once he had stepped back just beside Sherlock.

“Not yet.” Sherlock raised his hand, and took a step closer to Mrs. Hudson. She tilted her head to the other sighed and gasped again, raising an arm and flexing her fingers in Sherlock’s direction.

“Sherlock, _don’t_.”

“Mrs. Hudson?” The detective asked calmly. He was closing the space between them very slowly. She continued to out stretch her hand, as if reaching for him. Could she remember him? Sherlock doubted it. It had been an hour, too long not have major brain damage at least. But then why was she reaching for him?

“Don’t take another step.” John was keep his aim steady but Sherlock wasn’t helping his nerves. Sherlock ignored the doctor completely, taking one step and then another. But it was too close. Mrs. Hudson pulled her arm back and thrashed violently, throwing herself backwards. John’s grip tightened on the gun, ready to pull the trigger.

“Don’t!” Sherlock raised his hand at John. John looked, eyes wide, between Sherlock and their deceased landlady. She was thrashing her head, attempting to make noise, and if John didn’t know any better he would say she seemed frightened. But, after what happened only an hour ago, he couldn’t take any chances.

“Sherlock… this is a really bad idea.”

“She’s scared, John.”

“That’s what makes them dangerous!” John snapped, loud enough to increase Mrs. Hudson’s movement. She was trying to get away from them, but when she couldn’t get any further, she lashed out, like the man had earlier.

Sherlock moved back quickly and avoided all contact. His eyes remained guarded as he watched her curl up on the couch, all pale, stiff limbs. She gasped against the couch, arms and legs twitching. Her hands moved along her arms, up to her shoulders and then her face. She threw her head back and cried out. The sound made John’s skin crawl. It was completely inhuman.

To both of the men’s surprise, she began to scratch. Lightly at first, but then they watched her nails puncture skin and drag, taking chunks of skin and blood under her nails. She cried out again. Sherlock looked at John and this time, he kept himself together completely.

“Do it.” He said simply, quietly. John didn’t need to be told twice, though his chest ached with regret and sorrow as he pressed the trigger. The shot went clear through her temple and that was all it took. John lowered his gun. Her body went limp once more, head falling against the blood stained sofa and this time she didn’t raise it again.

Sherlock looked over her, one last time. Then he turned his heel and headed quickly out of the flat. “We’re leaving.”

“What?” John followed, holstering his gun. He sped up, to catch up with Sherlock before the detective left the flat entirely.“Sherlock, stop!”

Sherlock was at the door, hand on the knob. His eyes held such intensity now, willing to show just how angry and determined he felt. “To hell with Mycroft.”

“Why?” John asked. Mycroft was their one way ticket out of this whole mess.

“Because people are going to die!”

“And what are you going to do?” John demanded from the detective, a good enough answer to walk out that door with him just a few hours before their only ride out of this mess. “There is no mystery to solve, there is no bloody murderer. This isn’t something you can stop.”

“I can save Lestrade… and Molly.”

Possibly the hardest thing to deal with when it came to Sherlock Holmes was his lack of empathy. He didn’t solve murders to save victims. He wasn’t trying to be a hero. He just needed a good puzzle. He never spent time caring, mourning over those lost, or crying at bedsides. He just focused on his work and it was better that way.

So now, it was sad in a way, to hear him speak of saving people. It had silenced John easily. There was no arguing with that because John did care and had always cared. He would never leave a man behind if he had a choice. He looked up at the ceiling and took in a deep breath.

“You’ll call your brother after we find them?” John asked, eyes on the detective once more.

“Oh, most definitely.” Sherlock grinned crookedly. “But not until then.”

Sherlock opened the door and out into the night he stepped. John gave it one last thought and knew there was no way he was leaving Sherlock’s side. He stepped over the corpse and followed Sherlock out of 221 B.

The street was surprisingly empty, not a person in sight. The sky was above them was calm, cloudy but nothing out of the usual. It was bitter cold, causing John to pull his coat shut and zip it up.

It seemed like a perfectly normal winter night. At least that was good sign. Mycroft had said forty eight hours, but Sherlock knew better. That was to keep the nerves calm, or at least as calm as they could be. They had a day at most, if they were lucky.

Sherlock had his mobile out, he had already texted both Lestrade and Molly as John and him walked down the street. He needed a ride, walking just wasn’t going to be quick enough. Molly was at home, thankfully. It was probably best to stay from the morgue. Lestrade was across the city.

He was busy texting phone while John stood by him and watched the street. There was a car pulling up, black and all too familiar. John should've known that Mycroft would be keeping better tabs on them then more than ever. John cursed, tapping Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock looked up immediately and growled, baring teeth and an angry glare at the car approaching. He changed his position, walking behind John and situating himself on the other side of him. The car came to a slow roll, eventually stopping just in front of the John and Sherlock. Two doors opened. Mycroft and a man in a black suit stepped out of the vehicle.

“Don’t be stupid, little brother. Get in the car.” Mycroft waved his hand towards the open vehicle.

“No.” Sherlock hissed through his teeth.

“ _Get in the car_.” Mycroft demanded. “Don’t make me use force.”

“Mrs. Hudson is dead.” Sherlock told his brother.

“I know.” Mycroft said calmly, almost gently.

“Of course.” Sherlock laughed, taking a step back. “That’s why you’re picking me up personally.”

Mycroft remained silent as John looked between the two. A silent battle raged between the two. Words were unspoken but the two seemed to understand each other quite clearly, though neither of them seemed willing to budge on the matter. John had seen it plenty of times before. The two of them always butting heads. Mycroft, trying to force reason into his younger brother, the most unreasonable man on Earth.

“Save them.” Sherlock demanded.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft sighed, lowering his gaze to the ground.

“Save them!” Sherlock shouted.

“They’re not a priority!”

Sherlock raised both his hands quickly. John’s eyes widened while Mycroft took a small step back. The detective was holding John’s pistol in a steady aim at Mycroft’s head. The man who had stepped out of the vehicle reacted quickly, pulling out his own weapon and aiming it at Sherlock.

“Jesus Sherlock!” John cried. He realized then, that Sherlock had purposely stepped around him moments previous. He had slipped his gun out of his holster without the doctor even noticing. He had always claimed to be a master of pickpocketing. John wished he had just been more observant. 

Mycroft raised his hand, signaling his man to hold his fire but he never broke eye contact with his brother. Sherlock didn’t back down. His finger was placed carefully over the trigger.

“Save them, Mycroft.” Sherlock said again, evenly.

“Or you’ll shoot me?” Mycroft smiled, squinting his eyes. “Would you?”

Sherlock didn’t answer and once again, the brother stood in silence. John ran his hand over his mouth, taking a few steps towards Sherlock.

“Sherlock…”

“Stay out of it John.” Sherlock snapped without sparing him a glance.

“That’s my gun!”

“And I’m holding it! Stay. Put.”

John closed his mouth as helplessness overtook him. He stared at his crazed friend. He had never expected to see him like this. John knew Sherlock was protective of him. He knew, despite Sherlock’s lack of show, that the detective cared more about him than possibly anyone else in John’s life. He now knew better than to think Sherlock had no heart for others. He realized that love made that man dangerous, far more dangerous than he really had imagined.

Though it touched him deeply to know how Sherlock felt, he wanted this situation to end.

With a sigh and bowed head, Mycroft answered John’s prayers. “Fine.”

“Swear?” Sherlock didn’t lower the gun. Mycroft looked up, a bewildered expression across his face. Sherlock thrusted the gun forward “Swear it!”

“I _swear_.”

“If you lie to me…”

“I’m not.” Mycroft reassured him, despite everything, very calmly. “I will save them, Sherlock. Please. Get in the car.”

Sherlock stood there for a second longer, searching his brother’s face for any hint of a lie. When he found nothing, he lowered his gun. John didn’t realize he had been holding his breath, but judging by how light headed he suddenly felt when he released it, he’d been holding it for long. He rushed forward and pulled the gun out of Sherlock’s hand. That’s when he realized the safety had never been switched off. He looked up at Sherlock who was currently straightening his coat. His face was unreadable, at least to John.

“Our stuff…” John started, pointing towards the flat. Mycroft nodded and motioned the man to fetch their things. John called after them, “It’s just by the door.”

Sherlock stepped forward and Mycroft stood aside. John followed quickly, after holstering his gun, sliding into the backseat right after Sherlock. The two men sat next to each other, tense and silent. Mycroft waited outside the car until the man in the suit came back with all their luggage in hand.

As their luggage was secured in the boot of the car, Sherlock stared out the window as John stared ahead. Once Mycroft sat next to him and the doors shut, the car began to drive away from 221B Baker Street. John was surprised to feel a warm grasp on his hand. It was drug down, between him and Sherlock where eyes couldn’t pry. Fingers curled tight around his and John curled his in return.

He didn’t dare look at Sherlock, and knew the detective wanted it that way. John didn’t know if this was out of comfort… or fear. It wasn’t something he expected, but he would be lying if he said he hated it. The warmth of Sherlock’s hand was profoundly comforting, taking just the edge off. Right now, he couldn’t truly question it.

Sherlock holding his hand was the least of his worries.


	3. No Way Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans to get out of the city get foiled. The dead begin to overrun the city. There is nothing left to do but hide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I took longer than I meant to update this. I thought I had settled on a plan of action and then it changed three more times. I'm happy with this final idea! There is only one more chapter to go before the next part of the series, which is when it'll get much more exciting and you'll see a lot more growth. I know this had been slow and only taken place over the span of 48 or so hours, but a lot happens at the beginning of any catastrophe so I try to think about it that way. The only other problem I've had so far is being American. I'm suffering without proper british lingo and such. Oh well. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“Donovan, get out of here!” Greg shouted, standing in the living room of some poor family. They had called, but they hadn’t arrived quick enough. Their dogs, they claimed, had gone completely rabid. It was only one of so many by five in the morning that Monday. Lestrade by now had put down dogs, cats, and eight people all across london. Forty eight hours his ass, he thought as Sally rushed past him. 

Their dead canines laid on the floor in puddles of blood and one of the parents of the two children living there as well. The parent had died due to the the dogs, but Sally had just put down a child in the kitchen.

Greg was watching the mother, who was sitting up limply against the wall, arms wrapped around the other child. It was just an eight year old girl. They had both died, but had minor wounds. Bites on their arms, but nothing supposedly fatal. 

But there was no chances to be took. He remembered the warning John gave him before he had left Baker Street, and didn’t take it lightly. Every body in the flat he currently stood in had already been dead upon his arrival. To prevent them from rising, Greg had put a bullet in each brain, much to Sally’s bewilderment. 

“Greg Lestrade?” 

He fell out of his headspace and looked away from the deceased bodies on the floor. Two men, in black suits, both very built, well groomed and supporting serious expressions, were now standing on either side of him. 

“Yes?” He asked as confusion dawned on his face. Each of them took hold of one his arms and he struggled to get out of their grasp.

“Sir, you need to come with us.” The man to his right said.

“What for?!” Lestrade demanded as they began to drag him from the flat. “Let go of me!”

“I’m sorry, sir. Your safety is our utmost concern. You need to come with us.” The man said again as Lestrade all but dug his heels to the ground in efforts to stop them. They were both strong and their grasps were unforgivingly tight. They dragged him down the hall, past Sally and the rest of his current team who called after him. The elevator was called up with a push of the button and Greg didn’t stop fighting the two men holding him.

“Greg!” Sally cried, confused and afraid. Greg was shoved into the elevator before he could properly respond to her.

“Sally, get out of here, just… get out of London!” The inspector called back, his neck stretching as he tried to peer at her out of the closing doors of the elevator. “It’s not safe! Get out!”

The team was left, staring at one another in confusion and fear. With their inspector gone, what were they to do now? Sally fought back the fear burning up her inside and causing her eyes to itch with tears. She nodded to her team, clearing the emotion that welled up in her throat.

“Alright… London needs us.” 

 

\-----

 

Molly was curled up on her sofa at five in the morning, a warm blanket around her small frame. She was asleep, but just barely. She had replayed John’s frightening phone call in her head over and over again. For years now she had worked with the dead, and now they were supposedly not… dead anymore. She had no where to go, though John had begged her to get out.

She was alone in London. She had her friends, a little bit of family, but she was alone. She had no where to go, no family outside the city limits and even if she did, what was the use? John said this had spread across the entire world by now, or was in the process. She just couldn’t wrap her head around it.

A bacteria, he had told her. A bacteria was ravaging London as they spoke on the phone and it was bringing the dead to life. 

_“Stop it.” She had laughed hours earlier while she muted the telly. “You’re just pulling my leg, I know it.”_

_“Listen to me!” John had shouted back. “Do I sound like I’m telling you a joke? You are in danger!”_

_Those very words replayed in her dream, which fell into something sick and twisted. Standing in her flat and there came a knock on the door. When she reached to open it, the door fell away like magic and left corpses, corpses she had just seen in the morgue earlier that day, standing right in front of her._

_She screamed and fell back as they walked forward, moaning at her and reaching out with their dead clutches. They crowded close to her, three, then four, then more and more till they surrounded her. Their dead eyes looked at her, vacant yet evil. They started to grab her, her hair and her arms, tearing at her legs and her body. She thrashed around, still screaming and now crying, tears hot and rolling down her cheeks._

_“Molly!” She heard, but it wasn’t from any of the corpses. The voice was unfamiliar. “Molly Hooper!”_

“No!” She screamed and sat straight up, pulled out of her dream. Sweat beaded on her brow and tears clung to her face. She blinked and realized she wasn’t alone. She gasped and backed up on the couch, pulling her blanket around her tightly. A man in a black suit, green eyes looking at her worriedly yet very serious, was bent down in front of her, one arm on her shoulder.

“Calm down. You were asleep. You were crying.” He told her. She sniffled and wiped her face quickly with her shaking hands.

“Who are you… why are you in my flat?” She asked shakily. The man smiled gently and stood straight.

“Pack a bag, Ms. Hooper. You’re coming with me.”

“I’m what?” She asked, confused. Her eyes were wide, alarmed. She didn’t know this man and had never seen before in her life. “Where?”

“Somewhere safe.” He answered.

“Why?”

“Because Mr. Holmes said so. Now pack a bag.”

 

\----

They’d been driving for about twenty minutes. They were headed for the airport, John and Sherlock knew by this point. John hadn’t let go of Sherlock’s hand the the detective hadn’t looked away from the window. Neither of them spoke and Mycroft had been on and off his phone with different people, talking in a hushed tone though they could hear him clearly.

He was on his phone again, only he was silent. He had just answered it and his face had gone from relaxed to very serious within moments. John glanced, but his eyes didn’t stay. He stared ahead once more and listened. He couldn’t make out with the other side was saying to the elder Holmes, but it sounded rushed and panicked. Mycroft shifted uncomfortably next to the other men and sighed deeply.

“Then you know what to do.” He said slowly. He pulled the phone from his ear and closed his eyes as he hung up.

“What?” Sherlock asked. John realized he was now staring at his brother, no longer out the window. “What happened?”

"None of your concern.”

“Of course it isn’t. Like the bacteria that’s about the wipe London off the face of the Earth. Do give my best to the Royal Family, hm?” Sherlock hummed as he turned his head away. Mycroft rolled his head to the other side, annoyance forming clear lines across his forehead. 

John blinked slowly, peering down between his knees. He never could stand these two in a small room together, let alone the back of a car in the middle of a global emergency. He shouldn’t have taken the Queen’s death so lightly, (at least, he was almost sure it was the Queen) but he blamed it on shellshock. There were going to be many more deaths, he wouldn’t waste tears on just one even if it was the Queen. He felt his gut twist at the very thought and sighed inaudibly. 

John peered down between him and Sherlock, where their hands laid, fingers curled together. At the end of the world, Sherlock was holding onto him. John wondered if it was out of fear or from loss. Perhaps it was both, or something else entirely. Either way, John remained comforted by the simple act of holding hands. 

As did Sherlock, the man who everyone thought was emotionally stunted. The warmth of John’s palms and the softness of his fingers kept Sherlock as grounded as he could manage. He stared out into the darkness of the early morning. As they passed familiar landmarks, Sherlock replayed memories, short and fast, of himself and John running like mad men in the streets one case after another. Every so often as the minutes ticked by and the car continued it’s safe journey through the quiet streets, Sherlock would squeeze John’s fingers ever so lightly. He didn’t notice but, John did though he said nothing.

They would be arriving in approximately ten minutes. John was eager to get out of the car and keep the brothers separated on the jet that would surely be waiting for their arrival. He was hoping Mycroft stayed true to his word. He wanted to see Molly and Greg, safe and sound. He wondered if Greg had left willingly, knowing all he knew about the city he would be leaving behind. He had no doubt that Molly would do whatever she was told, but the inspector had family, friends, and the responsibility of the city on his shoulders. Would Mycroft save his family or would had he only guaranteed the bare minimum of Greg’s safety? 

“How many people are going to be saved, Mycroft?” John asked, breaking the silence. 

“Enough.” The elder Holmes said simply. That answer didn’t sit right with the soldier. John’s chin jutted out as his eyes narrowed.

“And… what is enough, exactly?” John asked.

“There are eight bunkers outside of London. They hold, individually, about two hundred people comfortably. Though, I suspect they will be pushing for max capacity.” Mycroft didn’t bother keeping the disdain from his voice which earned Sherlock’s hand a hard squeeze from John.

“That’s all?” John looked up at Mycroft.

“It isn’t my choice, John.”

“No? Whose then? Wait, let me guess… it’s none of my concern.” Sherlock chuckled beside John, who managed a small smile. Mycroft found none of it amusing and kept his mouth shut tightly. It was clear that Mycroft was ready to be out of the two men’s company, uninterested in being a target for blame.

“We’ll be arriving shortly and I have a phone call to make, so if you both could manage it, please be quiet.” Mycroft spoke sternly, his mobile in his hand and his thumb pressing in numbers quickly. Mycroft raised the ringing phone to his ear. “Hello-.”

“John!” Sherlock’s voice rang loud through the car just before the impact. They had been crossing an intersection smoothly. A truck to the right hadn’t stopped for the light. Sherlock had only just enough time to shout when he realized the truck was not stopping and that the man driving it was limp against the wheel.

Windows shattered and the sleek black car was driven off course. John could do nothing but try to brace himself, hand never leaving Sherlock’s. It had all happened in a split moment. The noise was deafening, the impact left them all disoriented, and then they were flipping. The car rolled onto it’s top, sending all three men toppling around the car as it righted itself and then landed, top heavy, on it’s side. The truck kept going, with the car now out of the way. The dead man’s foot was heavy on the gas. It’s destination was a tall apartment building at the end of the road, full of people readying themselves for a normal Monday morning.

The truck crashed again, for it’s final time, only after taking out three more cars. The truck sideswiped them, causing less damage but ruining the cars anyways. The apartment building now had major damage to it’s lower level, bricks falling away, dust kicked up and blurring the vision of anyone watching. Screams and car alarms bounced through the street as people fled from their buildings to get a look at the damage.

The sleek black car remained just left of the intersection, still toppled and smoking from the bonnet. All three men had been unbuckled and therefore, laid in a heap on the crushed ceiling, unconscious and bloodied. Mycroft’s phone laid just a foot from the wreckage, flattened and shattered. 

Three people, two young men and an older woman ran to the aide of the men still trapped inside the car. With the car smoking, there was a risk of fire. Paramedics and police were called, while the two men struggled to get into the car. They managed into one of the back shattered windows, and one by one they dragged the unconscious and battered men out. Sherlock first, John, and then Mycroft. The driver was dead and there was no more time left to recover the body before the car went up in flames. 

With tortured minds, the three people who had rescued the Holmes brothers and John, watched the fire blaze in the middle of the street. Though they could hear the screams and the panic from the end of the street; the truck’s final destination, they were completely unaware that the driver who had been pulled out of the wreckage and declared dead had reanimated and attacked almost immediately.

\-----

“Sherlock…” Everything kind of ached, his head felt heavy and he could hear but everything sounded distant. John could smell a familiar sterile smell and scrunched up his nose, rolling his head to one side. “Sherlock.”

“Yes, John.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John. I’m here, obviously. Open your eyes.” 

The doctor forced himself to do as he was told and it was no easy feat. His eyes cracked open and everything was blurry and the lights were too much. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut again. He felt a tight grasp on his wrist and heard an annoyed scoff from the other side of him.

“John, we need to leave. Open your eyes now.” John was coming to very quickly now, the noise all around him sounding louder and clearer. Sherlock’s voice was heavy with, if John didn’t know any better, fear.

“Am I in a hospital?” John asked weakly, attempting to open his eyes again, but this time slower. He blinked, face contorted from the pain he felt and the brightness of the room he was set up in. He could hear the familiar sound a monitor by his side and as soon as Sherlock’s face though battered and swollen on one side, he glanced around to see Mycroft, who was in a similar condition. His nose was discolored, his eyebrow dried with blood, lip split and forehead scrapped.

It was coming back to him now, the ride to the airport which had been cut short. He remembers the truck hitting them, the car rolling, Sherlock’s shouting and then… nothing after that. They all must have passed out, if they were all here now in a very loud Emergency Room.

“Yes and now we’re leaving the hospital.” Sherlock pulled back John’s sheet, exposing the doctor’s bare legs. He had been stripped and placed in a gown. Sherlock turned, grabbed a pile of clothes from the chair nearby and dropped the pile between John’s legs. “Hurry, change and we’re leaving.”

Without arguing, John sat up with a groan and looked down at the IV connected to him. He frowned and took in a deep breath before ripping it out. He muffled the noise of discomfort behind tight lips and didn’t worry about the bleeding, it would stop momentarily. As he started to pull on his pants, he looked at Mycroft and then Sherlock where they were both leaning against the wall. Neither of them looked happy, in fact they both looked almost helpless and extremely pissed off.

“How long were we out?” John asked as he shed the hospital gown and let it fall to the floor. He replaced that with his undershirt.

“Too long.” Mycroft snapped. “Almost four hours, thanks to sedatives. I awoke in the ambulance.”

“Four hours?” John froze, his jumper in his hands. He still had his watch on his wrist and when he looked at it, Mycroft was right. It was nearing ten thirty in the morning.

“Yes.”

“And… the plane?”

“An hour south of here.” Mycroft ran a hand carefully over his face. “My mobile as well. I managed to get through, using Sherlock’s… but nothing can be done. It’s already begun.”

John slipped his jumper on, then his socks and looked at Sherlock who, one step ahead as always, handed him his shoes. Sherlock was completely dressed, though his clothes were torn on the same side he was injured. There was dried blood in his curls and his cheekbone was a nasty mix of blues and purples, outlined by a tinge of yellow. 

“Already begun.” John repeated as he slipped his feet into his shoes and began to tie them quickly. “You said…”

“ I lied.” Mycroft’s jaw shifted side to side in clear irritation. “I couldn’t have you all in a mass panic, so I lied. You hardly needed to know. We should have been escorted out of here safely, hours before the outbreak would begin.”

“Oh yes, well done Mycroft. The hospital is being overrun as we speak, so we really should go.” Sherlock chimed in with an out of place smile that wrinkled his discolored face. John blinked, opened his mouth but couldn’t find the right words for a moment. Sherlock’s smile dropped, leaving a stoic expression in it’s place. 

John cleared his throat, looking towards the glass door that separated them from the chaos. “So…”

“The hospital is over run with the risen dead, John. Hence hurrying you to get your ass out of bed so we can escape, preferably soon.”

“Well you could have bloody said that from the beginning!” John shouted, standing fully now. Mycroft moved the glass door, where John had been seeing figures move and rush past. He suddenly realized what he heard wasn’t just a busy ER, but they were screams, crying, and…”Shit, how are we getting out?”

“Very carefully and very quickly. Thankfully, they stuck you as far from the chaos as possible. Mycroft and I… were not so lucky.” Sherlock answered, standing next to his brother. The glass door was the only thing separating them from the rest of ER. For a good moment, it was clear. No rushing paramedics, no nurses, and no undead.

John could feel the fear, cold and crippling, make it’s way from the pit of his stomach and spreading through the rest of his body. He never let it stop him but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there chilling him to the bone. Mycroft looked back at them both and with a simple nod from Sherlock, and John ready to follow the two, he opened the glass door. 

The noise became almost unbearable. It was like a battlefield. The screaming, gun shots, and a mash up of plenty of other horrible noises. John cringed at the visual images he was conjuring up in his mind but didn’t hesitate. He followed the two brothers out of the room. There were rooms all down that hallway but all the doors were shut for the most part.

“We can make it to the exit in under two minutes, this way.” Sherlock spoke loud enough to be heard, glancing at John before taking off to the left. They rounded a corner almost immediately. John expected to find some type of horror to be waiting there for them, but there was nothing. Just a long, empty hallway with two double doors. “Past those doors, we make a right, get to the lobby… then we’re out.”

They moved together, keeping close and rushing. It was strange, for the younger Holmes and John to have Mycroft at their side. He consistently reminded them that he wasn’t one for action. Seeing him now, stride along side them with determination written in the lines of his face, was almost wrong.

They made it to the double doors and pushed through them quickly. All three brothers came to a stand still. There were two men in the hallway, half way between them and the next hallway they needed to turn down. It was quite obvious they were dead. Their yellowed eyes gave it away, as did the blood that dripped from their faces and their hands. Their clothes were disheveled and torn in some places where there would be wounds beneath the fabric. They were bumbling about each other, snarling and croaking. They’re movements, though clumsy, were borderline erratic. They twitched and swung out whenever one of them got too close to the other. 

“We have to go back.” John whispered.

“No, we can’t. There’s no other way out.” Sherlock hissed. The two dead men had still yet to notice them, but it was only a matter of time.

“We have to run.” Mycroft decided. 

“Are you crazy?” John couldn’t take his eyes off the pair ahead, but his voice held the panic he felt. People, he wasn’t afraid of, but these were no longer people. There was no reasoning and he was unarmed.

“John, how do you think we made it to your room?” Mycroft asked, his tone almost threatening. “We have no weapons and no other choice.”

“But if they even scratch us…”

“Yes, we’re all aware.” Sherlock snapped, finally taking his own gaze off the dead men ahead to look at John. There was fear in his eyes, but also something else. It was comforting enough and after a moment of eye contact, John finally gave in and nodded. They had no choice. 

“On my count.” Mycroft whispered. “One… two… three.”

The three of them sprinted. Their loud footsteps against the linoleum floor gave away their previously unnoticed presence to the two undead ahead of them. They shrieked and it seemed the sight of the three of them rushing towards them startled them greatly. Instead of attacking, they stumbled backwards and their arms raised to protect themselves. 

They were in a full on panic, with no current intention of attacking. Sherlock assumed they were most likely confused from the sudden increase of noise and visual stimulation of three bodies running at them. That was a relief. They fell over one another as they tried to get out of the way of them, swinging at each other viciously which enough room and time for the brothers and John to slip past quickly. 

The three didn’t stop, they sped through the hallway and rounded the next corner which was, thankfully, clear. They didn’t slow down. John was trying to block out the increasingly distant shouting and screaming. 

“Wait!”

Though the brothers only gave a sparing glance, John stopped when he heard the cry for help. A doctor was struggling down another hallway. He was holding his arm as blood soaked through and seeped from his fingers. His face was messy, scratched and dirty. One eyes was swollen shut.

“John, don’t.” Sherlock snapped, only stopping for John. He had been prepared to deal with John and his heart. He just hoped he didn’t have to waste too much time doing so. “We have to go.”

“But-.”

“But what? Clearly, he’s infected. Look at him.” Sherlock snapped, nodding his head towards the man moving slowly to them. “There’s nothing you can do. We need to leave, now.”

“Please.” The man begged. John’s chest ached. He looked away from the man to Sherlock instead. There was pain in his eyes while Sherlock’s remained clear of everything except determination. That didn’t surprise the army doctor in the least but it did manage to piss him off just a bit. He knew they couldn’t do anything, but still he felt the irrational need to help.

The man continued to walk towards them, clearly feeling the effects of the infection current spreading through his entire body.

“John…” Sherlock took a gentle approach as they ran out of time. His hand out stretched towards his doctor, grey eyes trying to communicate. The longer they took, the more danger they’d be in. “We have to.”

“I’m sorry.” The doctor whispered, closing his eyes tight for one moment before reaching out and grabbing Sherlock’s hand. Together they sped away from the man who continued to holler for their help. He collapsed against the wall, and by the time John looked back he was sitting limply on the floor. 

John wondered if he was already dead.

The three men continued their way out of the hospital. They passed another set of doors, which opened up into the main lobby. It was almost deserted. There was two undead; one man and one woman, but they were far from them and their intended exit. There were other dead bodies that littered the ground, police, nurses and civilians. John blocked out the emotions and tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hand before letting go entirely.

“We should get their weapons.” John nodded towards one of the police officers. Mycroft looked at the entrance and then the dead across the lobby.

“Hurry.” He said. While he made for the door, Sherlock and John rushed towards the corpses. John didn’t bother checking pulses. He simply grabbed the first gun, checked it’s ammunition and holstering it for himself. By the time he stood up, Sherlock was next to him with two more hand guns. 

“Let’s go.” Mycroft called to them, already at the doors of the hospital. He could see outside, into the small parking lot that was filled with cars and to the street. This would only be the beginning, hospitals would be taking the worst of it but the rest of the city would also be in complete chaos. Mycroft opened the door and Sherlock led the way out, passing his brother one of the loaded handguns as he passed him.

Stepping outside, for a moment John was led to believe it was just a normal day. Cloudy, freezing, and the hospital and surrounding buildings were decorated for Christmas. It was until he heard echoing gunshots and nearby screaming and ruckus did it ruin the illusion. He cleared his throat.

“So?” He asked the two brothers. “What do we do?”

“We hide.” Mycroft said simply. Sherlock passed both of them and headed straight for the small parking lot. 

“Hide. That’s your plan?”

“There’s no getting out of London, now.” Mycroft smiled tightly. “London is in a panic. Every road leading out will be packed so densely, you wouldn’t be able to walk out of here.”

John rubbed his chin roughly and winced, realizing he had massive bruising along his jawline. He wondered how the rest of his face looked. He knew his shoulder was pretty bad, there’d even been a bit of stitching possibly where glass had penetrated the skin. But all in all, he was lucky to have survived. He’d take the aches and stitches without complaint.

Realizing that Mycroft was right, John sighed and let his eyes wander til he found Sherlock who was busy trying to open doors of cars in the parking lot.

“What is he doing?”

“Finding us a vehicle.”

“But you said the streets will be packed.”

Mycroft’s smile dropped and he breathed in steadily through his nose. “We’re not following the crowd.”

 

\----

Like the elder Holmes had said, they didn’t follow the crowds out of the city. Instead, after hotwiring a car, Sherlock drove them right back into the city. That alone was horrifying. The streets were still filled, but not with as many cars. Most of whom had decided to fled, had done so already and the rest were either dead, reanimated, or looting.

They were safe in the car, it seemed. They drove past the undead, some of which ran in the opposite direction. Most showed outright aggression, running at the car and banging on the exterior. Those would truly be the ones to worry about, John figured. The strangest thing, was finding the bunches of freshly reanimated corpses huddled together. John had kept his eyes on one particular bunch of five and as soon as they drove past them, they began to attack one another. It was vicious and uncoordinated, just swinging limbs, shouts, shrieks and a lot of teeth.

“When they’re startled, they become aggressive. They don’t discriminate about who they’re attacking. It just seems to be whatever is closest.” Mycroft had informed him when John looked at him in puzzlement. John only nodded in response and continued to watch as they passed many more of the undead on the street. It hadn’t taken him long to realize they were headed right back to 221B Baker Street. John guessed that made enough sense as any.

When they arrived, they had a straight shot inside and they didn’t waste it. The street was filled with the dead, both reanimated and not, but there was a fair distance between any of them and 221B. John was in a way glad to be home but seeing the impossible happening on his doorstep made his stomach twist and head light. 

The dead body in the foyer was still there when they made it through the entrance, as well as Mrs. Hudson, in her flat. There was a silent agreement to worry about it later. None of them had spoken much since the hospital. The brother’s were wrapped up in their own minds and John, well he was fighting off the acute shock. 

“So..” John started as he reached the top of the stairs. Sherlock had led, followed by Mycroft and John behind him. John was shrugging off his coat gently, trying not to cause himself anymore pain from the wounds he had suffered. “We’re surrounded by the angry dead, we can’t get out of London… and we haven’t gone to the shop in over a…”

“Sherlock! John!”

“Oh thank God.” 

In the sitting room, stood the two people John thought he wouldn’t be seeing again, at least for a very long time. Sherlock smiled when John gave him a bewildering and confused look. He shut the door once John had made it through and hung up his coat. John was frozen, even when he was pulled into a tight hug. After a moment, when he pulled himself together, he gently wrapped his arms about the small frame against him.

“Greg…” John’s voice had come out weaker than he meant. He cleared his throat and blinked. Molly pulled back from the huge, trying to hide her smile by biting her lower lip.“And Molly. But… you were supposed to be on the plane.”

“Without you and Sherlock?” Greg laughed softly. “Not a chance in hell.”

“When you didn’t show up…” Molly started timidly. “Well, I thought the worst. But Greg didn’t. He knew better. Then Sherlock called and we were already here. He said to stay, that… there’s no chance to get out now.”

“You could have gotten killed.” John frowned, looking between the both of them.

“We didn’t.” Greg smiled weakly. “Anyways, you should be happy for the company. At least you won’t be alone with these two for god knows how long.”

John smiled, despite everything. He had thought of that, being cooped up in this house until it was safe to leave, and with the two most irritable people he has ever known. Yes, at least he would survive the company now, but that did nothing to ease the fear and ache settled deep inside him. They still had to survive until they could get out of London… and then survive that.

“As much as I’m pleased to see you all reunited…” Mycroft spoke up, clearly not pleased. “I think it’s time for a little chat.”


	4. It's Only The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, John and Greg are sent to retrieve groceries and supplies. They bring back all that and something more, to Mycroft's silent displeasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pft. I don't even know why I decided to try and post this last chapter last night. I knew I had some things to fix. Like I said, I was way too eager. But now here it is, how it's actually supposed to be, and that's the end of this first part. I hope you all love the little twist. And I'm hope you're excited for the next part of the series, which will only consist of one or two chapters. We'll see. Anyways enjoy reading!

Molly had made tea while the four men had found themselves comfortable spots. Mycroft hadn’t moved, so John took the chair at the desk. Lestrade leaned against the end of the desk and Sherlock had taken his chair across from Mycroft. While they waited on Molly, Greg leaned back towards John, eyeing his shoulder and arm, then the bruised side of his face. John still hadn’t taken the time to look at it.

“Sherlock mentioned the car crash.” 

“Mm? Oh, right. Yes.” John looked down at his shoulder, picking at the frayed threads of his jumper with a frown. He had been listening, to the chaos outside. It was distant, the honking of cars, and a occasional scream and gunshots. Mostly he could hear the rabid dead on the street below snarling and shrieking at one another. He’d nearly forgotten about the crash. It seemed so trivial compared to the rest of it, despite that he was lucky to be alive

“You’ve all have some stupid luck.” The inspector grinned. “I’m glad you made it out of that, only a bit banged up.”

“Yeah.” John laughed, running his hand gently over his aching jaw line. He sighed and blinked up at his friend. “Now to make it out of… this.”

“Right…” Greg’s face fell, replaced with worry. He looked over at the Holmes brothers, just in time to catch Mycroft smiling at each of them in turn. Molly came in from the kitchen with cups of tea, clearly struggling with the four she was trying to balance with her hands. Greg moved forward quickly and together, they handed them to the appropriate person. 

“So.” Mycroft finally broke his own silence after a sip of tea. “I’m afraid we’ll be enduring each other’s company for the next two weeks or so. We’ll be disposing the bodies and checking the state of the other homes in the building. Anyone you find is not welcome, but-”

“Why?” Greg asked immediately, before John could even open his mouth to ask the very same.

“Because,” Mycroft frowned at him. “We need to survive. People become problematic.”

“We’re people.” The inspector argued, his face scrunched up in distaste.

“I’m aware.” Mycroft’s tone was dry. “If it weren’t for my brother holding a gun to my face, you would not be here either.”

“He what-.”

“Mycroft is right.” Sherlock interjected immediately. Everyone turned to him in shock and even he had to grit his teeth and scrunch up his face nastily at himself. He hated those three words more than anything, but he had to say it. “Five people attempting to survive is already a high risk. If we add anymore, we run the risk of running out of supplies. There would be battles for dominance and stupidity beyond your wildest nightmares. Imagine a mob mentality in a time like this.”

“But what if someone needs our help?” Molly piped in.

Silence followed, which drove John, Greg and Molly to feeling ill. Greg looked down at his feet and sighed heavy through his nose. John stared at the back of Sherlock’s head and felt the anger bubbling up inside him. But he knew it was best, to keep all five of them safe. They had to remain just the five of them. It just didn’t sit right with who he was.

“You said two weeks.” John came back, though unhappy, to the matter at hand.

“Yes.” Mycroft nodded. “In theory, a couple weeks from now, London will be nothing but the risen dead. It is possible there will be survivors, but the majority of London will have left or have died. I’ve said two weeks, because all bunkers will close their doors for good after three weeks. If we don’t make it in time...”

“We’ll be stuck in a world of the undead.” Sherlock finished his sentence in a low voice. His fingers drummed along the arm of the chair. “In a month, this bacteria would have spread to every living thing on this planet. They don’t want to close the doors immediately, because the probability of surviving will be at it’s highest in the first three weeks of the outbreak. But after that, the doors have to shut to ensure the survival of the human race inside the bunkers. Hold the doors open to long, the wrong thing could get in or… the people could get out.”

“Why would they get out?” Molly asked. “Who would want to leave a safe bunker?”

“There will always be uprisings of those who despise authority and wish to do things their own way. They may run for safety at first. but after weeks in a stuffy bunker with a couple hundred other people and strict authority… they’ll know doubt lash out and try to leave. They calculate it’ll take just over a month before something like that happens. They are most certainly correct.” Mycroft paused to take another sip of his tea. He shifted, putting one leg over the other and smiled in that way that made everyone a tad uneasy. “We can discuss all that later, right now we have to survive here. It should be relatively easy to keep ourselves alive. We don’t venture outside, unless it’s for supplies, and we don’t let anyone in under any circumstances.”

“Right. Supplies.” John folded his arms over one another atop the desk. “We’ve got hardly any food.”

“We have about four hours until the sun sets.” Mycroft looked down at his wrist, frowning at his watch which had a crack across the glass face, caused by the car crash. But it still told him the time. “That should be more than enough time to get what we need.”

“So we’re going back out there?”

“Molly and I will stay here.” The elder brother looked at the girl who looked sheepishly at the rest of the men in the room. “To hold down the fort.”

“John, you, Lestrade and I will go collect supplies.” Sherlock turned his head just enough to look at John. The army doctor nodded his head and looked up at Greg who hadn’t said a word. The inspector finally nodded his head slowly and narrowed his gaze at Mycroft.

“Not much for action, are you?” Mycroft chuckled at the inspector.

“I think I’ve had my fill of action for the day…”

“For a lifetime, more like it.” Sherlock sneered. Mycroft raised his eyebrows, looking unimpressed and said nothing.

Greg stood straight, making sure his gun was still on his hip. He looked between the other men and raised his eyebrows. “Alright, so what do we need?”

 

\-----

Getting to the shop had been relatively easy. They still had a car and any undead angry enough to throw themselves at the vehicle were simply ran over. It didn’t phase Sherlock any, who sat in the passenger seat this time. Greg, who drove and John who sat in the back of the car, both cringed any time they heard the crunching of bone and muscle beneath the tires. When they parked outside the shop, it was easy to see they hadn’t been the only ones there that day. 

The parking lot was filled with cars, doors wide open, dead people hanging out of them and some cars completely abandoned. Shopping carts of food and necessities were scattered and toppled over. There was no one left alive as far they could see. After deciding that most of the merchandise that had been in the store had now been looted or was somewhere in the parking lot, they abandoned the idea of going in all together.

Instead, they started going through the carts lingering in the parking lot. There were undead shuffling about, but with accurate shots aimed at the head, they were taken out in the first few moments after the three men had gotten out of the car.

They had decided they would stick to mostly canned goods. They weren’t sure how long they would have power to 221B. So as they rummaged through the carts, sticking close to each other, they went for the basics. Food, toiletries, feminine products for Molly, and first aid supplies. Thankfully, there was plenty at hand and they packed the car full.

Sherlock and John were piling the last of the found supplies in the back of the car, when the detective raised his head, mouth slightly open and head tilted. John looked over at him as he placed the last bit of supplies he had found in the car.

“What is it?” He asked quietly. Sherlock held up his hand, eyes narrowed. John looked around and strained his ears, trying to hear whatever Sherlock seemed to be hearing. It didn’t take but a few moments. John frowned. “Is that crying?”

“Shh…” Sherlock turned away from the car, looking at the automatic doors of the shop. John’s gaze followed, trained on the glass doors. Then he saw it, the small figure walking towards them from inside the shop. The doors opened and out stumbled a little girl, maybe three or four years old. She was bloody, but didn’t seem actually hurt, just very frightened.

Sherlock immediately looked at John. The doctor’s heart had leapt to his throat. The detective sighed. “John…”

“Shut up, Sherlock.” The doctor snapped. The little girl was staring at them both. Her bloody hair, naturally dark brown, was pulled back in a messy tail. She wore a dress and warm legging and a heavy coat atop of all of it. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hide from the cold air, and looked at them both with innocent, frightened eyes.

“Mummy…” She cried and choked on the air she was trying to swallow. “Where is my mummy?”

Sherlock’s eyes softened briefly. The ache in his chest shouldn’t have been there. He was smarter than that. But watching the little girl choke on her sobs and wipe her face uselessly with the sleeve of her jacket, it made him hurt. The blood that stained her was definitely not hers. She wasn’t in pain and she was completely covered, any injury that would have led to infection would be showing. That meant, she was completely alone. Sherlock looked at John again, reverting back to the cold logic.

“John, we can’t…”

“Who’s that?” Greg appeared beside them. He had been getting the car started and ready to go. He was staring right at the little girl who hadn’t moved an inch but her cries were growing louder.

“Hey…” John called gently and began to approach but Sherlock caught his arm. The doctor turned immediately, fire in his eyes and he snarled. “It’s a child, Sherlock.”

“We can’t take her with us.” Sherlock hissed, glaring at the shorter man. 

“It’s a little girl!” John nearly shouted and Sherlock frowned deeply, taking a quick look around to make sure that John hadn’t brought any attention to them. “It’s a little girl, who won’t do us any harm. We can save her.”

“Mycroft won’t have it.” Sherlock said, because it was the only thing holding him back from picking that little girl up and tucking her safely into the car himself.

“To hell with your brother.” John snapped. Sherlock’s jaw tightened as John turned his back and began to approach the girl once again. Greg looked around with worry. There was no one left alive, no mother to be seen. Only a couple of undead bumbling about on the opposite side of the street.

“We need to go.” He said quietly to Sherlock. The younger man sighed, shoulders slumping just slightly. 

“Not without her.”

John knelt in front of the little girl who took a couple steps back and sobbed loudly. “I want my mummy.”

“Hey, I know.” John tried to soothe her, reaching out. She jerked away and stumbled backwards, falling on her bottom. John held up both hands slowly. “I’m not going to hurt you. We can take you somewhere safe.”

“We _really_ need to go, Sherlock.” Greg kept glancing over his shoulder. The undead had finally detected them and they were watching. Their mutilated bodies, covered in blood and supporting broken bones and other injuries twitched and spasmed. Their yellow eyes made the inspector shudder.

Sherlock was looking at them too. They had all agreed to shoot, only when really necessary. Otherwise, they’d be wasting ammo. He looked back at John, who was still trying to sweet talk the girl into going with them. She was only getting louder and backed up further and further from John.

Then it all happened in an instance. One of the undead who was surveying them snapped completely. He let out a shriek and started moving towards them, quick, probably due to his lack of injury, Sherlock thought. It wasn’t a full run, but it was quick enough to make his blood run cold.

The undead’s skin was pale and clammy, his hair matted with blood. But the only sign of injury was a bite mark on his arm, which had stopped bleeding hours before. His eyes were the same yellow. Sherlock could see from here, the dead snapping their mouths open and shut as they screeched. The rest of the undead had began to follow the first, making their horrible noises and doing their best to keep up with the lead undead.

“Shit!” Greg cried, pulling his gun out and aiming. Just as he fired off the first shot, Sherlock moved quick. John had turned around, eyes wide in realization and started cursing loudly, fumbling to get his gun from his awkward position on the ground. Greg was shooting, but every other shot missed the appropriate target due to nerves.

“Just get in the car!” Sherlock shouted as he brushed past the doctor. In one easy swoop, he grabbed the girl who began to scream and struggle. But, Sherlock didn’t let go, he held her like a baby, cradling her against his chest.. He turned quickly, slipping and nearly hitting the ground. His hand came out to save his fall and he winced as the concrete cut his palm open. He struggled to get back on his feet with the extra weight in his arms, but once he managed, he was racing towards the car.

John had joined Greg, firing off shots with much better accuracy. Sherlock ran for the car, opening the back door and dropping her inside. He looked over the top of the car at the two men with their guns raised. “Go!”

Sherlock slid into the backseat with the little girl and was joined by both men a moment later. The girl’s crying filled the car and she kicked her legs, her tiny feet colliding with Sherlock but he paid little mind and instead screamed at the driver. “Go, go!”

One of the undead, the first one, ran smack into the side of the car. His hands banged on the glass and his shrieking, though muffled, was terrifying and unbelievably loud. Bloody hand prints were left on the glass, along with other unidentifiable fluid. The little girl screamed, staring up at the undead with wide eyes. Suddenly, she was springing away from that side of the car and straight into Sherlock’s lap. The car came to life a split second later, jerking the passengers all around as Greg backed up, turned the wheel harshly and gunned it once he was in drive.

“I’ve got you.” Sherlock whispered, and he didn't know why. He didn’t know when his arms had wound themselves tight around the girl. It just felt right. She clung back just as hard, face buried in his neck as she cried. “You’re safe now.”

 

\-----

 

Silence had fallen over the flat when the three men returned. Sherlock hadn’t let go of the girl since she jumped into his arms, and even standing in the middle of the flat, he hadn’t let go. She was curled into a ball, her head resting heavy on his shoulder. She smelled like blood and urine and dirt. But Sherlock didn’t mind.

Mycroft studied him and the girl. He seemed he hadn’t moved from his spot since they’d left. His face was void of all emotion, but Sherlock knew better. The younger brother glared viciously, daring Mycroft to say anything. They’d gone against his wishes, after all. But thinking about it logically, it’s was only a child. A child wouldn’t cause any major problems, except maybe slowing them down, but it wouldn’t be much.

Mycroft only sighed and waved his hand in his brother’s direction. John grinned and Greg relaxed visibly, finally setting down the bags of supplies in his hands. Molly was watching from the kitchen entrance and she smiled wide, glad that there had been no real argument about it. Mycroft knew he would be outnumbered. It wasn’t worth the hassle. 

The girl would stay with them.

 

\-----

 

The girl needed to be bathed and as all the men stood frozen at the thought, Molly quickly decided she would take the responsibility. The little girl had cried and hollered when taken from Sherlock’s arms. Mycroft had groaned in response but was met with four other pairs of threatening eyes. He didn’t make another sound, only glared back before disappearing into the kitchen. Molly was gentle, taking the girl from the detective’s arms.

“It’s only a bath.” Sherlock told her. He crinkled his nose, looking over her messy appearance. His tone didn’t soften. “Or do you want to stay covered in blood and filth?”

She hiccuped and sniffled, wiping furiously at her eyes. She shook her head but reached for him anyways. 

“Bath.” He said again and finally, she allowed Molly to take her into the bathroom.

It was a half hour before they returned. By then, John and Greg had brought all supplies in. Then John and Sherlock had changed clothes. Mycroft as well, who was extremely displeased with his clothing options. John had given him a shirt and Sherlock, reluctantly, sneering about how he should let him go naked, gave him an old pair of pants that he secretly knew would be too tight on his brother.

John made dinner, deciding to use the electric while they still had it. He made enough for everyone. The telly was on but only the emergency news feed played. But it was kept on anyways, mostly to drown out the noise from the street below. It was all sneering and shrieking, which kept them all rooted to the impossible reality. While the world died outside, they sat in safety (hopefully) and comfort (for now).

Molly and the little girl finally joined them. Her hair was wet but free of blood. She had a bruise on her forehead but no other injury, Molly had checked. She been put back in her dress, as it was the only thing that they had which would fit her. They would need to figure that out later. She made no complaint however. Instead, her only interest seemed to be the dark haired detective.  
She didn’t stay by Molly’s side, who settled on the couch with a plate of food. 

The little girl ran to Sherlock, who was in his chair with a forgotten plate beside him on his table, and bounced up with no warning, into his lap. Sherlock had been staring blankly at the telly, but his gaze shifted quickly with the added weight. He gave her a strange look which held a million question she wouldn’t be able to see or answer. Sherlock then glanced up at John, clearly unsure and hoping for some type of help. John chuckled and shrugged his shoulders.

“She likes you.” Greg said around a mouthful of food. Sherlock rolled his eyes, shifting in his seat awkwardly. The little girl swayed with the movement but had no interest in leaving.

“Obviously.” He blinked down at her. She balanced herself on his thigh, her hands in her lap. Her eyes basically spun around in their sockets as she tried to take in the whole scene at once. She had green eyes, tinted with a hazelnut brown. Her cheeks were rosy from hot bath water. She had thin lips and her nose, still properly forming, was soft and curled up just slightly. 

She was in preschool, her fingernails had freshly chipped nail paint and had been cut recently, suggesting a good relationship with her mother. There was a birthmark on her neck, barely visible. Her ears were pierced and around her neck hung a gold necklace. The dress she wore was recently bought and today was the first time she wore it. Her leggings were older, but not much. She came from a good family. She could speak well enough it seemed, so Sherlock guessed five years old, but didn’t know for sure. 

Sherlock’s lips twitched at the corners, forming a small and awkward smile.

“What’s your name?” He asked, since they hadn’t yet.

“Julie.” She answered in a sweet voice. “What’s your name?”

“Sherlock.” He answered without missing a beat. 

“Sher..lock.” She pronounced slowly, feeling the name and scrunching up her nose. “That’s a silly name.”

“Yes.” He gave her half a smile that dropped from his face a moment later. He guessed introductions were in order. He pointed to Greg over his shoulder. “That’s Lestrade.”

“Greg.” The inspector corrected with a half hearted glare. Sherlock pointed at Molly.

“Molly.”

“I know.” Julie smiled slightly at Molly who smiled back, eyes soft and bright. Sherlock pointed across from him, where John sat, moving his food around his plate.

“That’s John. And the man in the kitchen is my brother, Mycroft.” Sherlock eyed his brother, who sat alone at the kitchen table amongst Sherlock’s equipment. He was staring dead ahead, lost in thought. He hadn’t touched the clothes that were offered to him. Sherlock frowned, eyes narrowing into a glare. “He’s a...” Sherlock thought carefully in a split second. She was only a child. “Grump.”

“Why?”

“Because he doesn’t want to be here.” Sherlock answered simply but truthfully. Julie looked up at Sherlock, her eyes going from curious to sad within moments. Her bottom lip quivered and she sighed.

“Me either.” She sniffled and fell forward into Sherlock’s chest. She began to cry. “I want my mummy.”

All eyes, except Mycroft who continued to zone in on his own thoughts, were on Sherlock and the little girl. 

Greg thought about his wife. Estranged, always running off on him, always breaking his heart and yet he could never let go of her. He had been happy to know she would be safe, in the bunker. Mycroft had done that one thing for him. He wondered if he would ever see her again. If she had made it safely. He wondered about the rest of London, the city he had sworn to protect. Now he was here, hiding away in 221B from the rest of London. He had to fight every urge to jump back into the streets, find Sally (if she was still alive) and help protect the rest of the children out there screaming and crying for their parents. He released a breath he hadn’t known he held and ran a shaking hand over his face.

Molly sat alone on the couch, staring at Sherlock and the girl in his lap. She thought about her mum and her dad. She wished she was little again, so she could crawl into someone’s lap and be held the way she desperately needed then. Hell had broken loose in London. Her job, her friends, her family- her whole life was just gone. She looked down at her plate, mostly finished and decided she was done. She felt suddenly exhausted. 

John had stopped fiddling with the food on his plate in favor of watching his flatmate. The girl sobbed, but Sherlock did nothing. But no one moved forward to take charge, to try and help her. Not that she seemed to want anyone but Sherlock. His lips twisted at one corner into a slight smile. It’d been a very long day- two days in fact. There’d been great loss, complete chaos, he’d nearly died himself. He felt numb to it all. Even the thought of Mrs. Hudson only produced a soft ache in his belly. It was in defense, he knew. He’d learned to do this in the army, when the stress became too much. He buried it because he couldn’t do anything about it. Instead of dwelling, he watched the one good thing that had happened that day; they had saved a precious life.

Sherlock ran his fingers gently through the wet strands of Julie’s hair, just once. It was the nice thing to do. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, he’d been fighting off sleep for days already and that car crash had done nothing but worsen his need for sleep.. He had made himself comfortable, in pajamas and robe. Now the girl’s tears penetrated it like a knife, burning his skin. He blinked his eyes open to watch her, but made no other move to touch her. She didn’t seem to mind.

He let her cry, because he would have cried too if he was a child. Lost, abandoned, in the company of strangers with terrible things happening right outside the safety of the flat. Oh, he would have cried for mummy too. They all would have. 

Try as he might, his cold logic seeped in to cruelly remind him in that sad moment; it was only just the beginning.


End file.
